Maybe so much writing
is boring because it was
written early in the morning
when nothing much was happening.
Sure, the wind chimes are ringing,
the dogs are snoring
and the water in the pond
is rushing down its mini-waterfall,
slowing wearing a groove in the
boulder that it transverses.
The sky has a mere tinge of pink,
and occasional car lights
can be seen passing on the road,
punctuating the darkness
with their brilliance.
Compare that to rush hour,
in about a hour, when we
hurry hurry hurry.
Lots more fodder there
for a good poem, don't you think?
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